


Little Cactus

by laliquey



Series: Cactus Stories [2]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Gen, Kindred Spirits, Post-Finale, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Audrey confides in Rust about something she doesn't want to tell anybody else.</p><p>This started as a gen one-shot for Yuletide that got increasingly shippy in Chapters 2 & 3. Basically an unorthodox friendship evolves into something else, complete with serious snags and serious work to keep the relationship hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleurlb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurlb/gifts).



Rust shuttles himself between Doumain's and Marty's like a child of divorce, spending a few days here and a few days there. An uninterrupted week with Marty still gets them both irritable no matter how close they are now, and becoming inadvertent blood brothers in what Marty's taken to calling "Satan's rectum" doesn't shield them from petty arguments about the correct way to fold a bath towel.

Today's an especially good day to get out of Marty's metaphorical hair. They've been getting mail and teary handshakes in parking lots from people with loved ones in the Carcosa bone pile, and yesterday an auntie brought them a pair of heavy homemade buttermilk pies. Rust has somehow managed to eat all of his and half of Marty's, so it seems wise to hightail it out to Bob's for the weekend before he opens the fridge and finds out. Besides, he loves being back out at the bar. It's different now - he hasn't talked about it with Bob and probably never will, but a reunion of sorts with their lost children has lifted weights off both of them.

Not all of it, but enough.

Bob's working through a list of bar housekeeping items that have never been done. Last week he cleaned the grime from the windows and this week he's freshening up the taxidermy. The old vacuum has a peripheral whistle that bugs the living shit out of Rust, who's in the back sorting out a shoebox of last month's receipts. He's of limited use in Bob's cleaning campaign because he can only lift so much and standing with his arms overhead still hurts.

He's about to escape for a smoke someplace quiet when the vacuum stops and his ear's tapped by a voice out front like a gold bell. Not a woman who's smoked since age six, which is their usual clientele, but a girl. He keeps sorting and listens to the construction of her drink - ice, a shot, and a squirt of the gun. Probably rum and Coke, or Coke and vanilla vodka if she's really young.

Bob appears a few minutes later. “Girl wants to see you,” he grunts. It's not a sentence Rust ever hears and it gives him a nice tingle. It may be a long shot but he hopes for pie.

It's Audrey Hart, in a little charcoal gray jacket with her hair pulled back. “Hi.”

“Hey. What brings you all the way out here?”

She runs her thumbnail along a groove in the Formica. “Dad told me about this place and I wanted to see it for myself.”

An unlikely story, but Rust can't think of a likely one. “Well I hope it's everything you expected.”

“Um, yeah.” She stirs what might be a 7&7 and looks up at the Budweiser Clydesdale lamp hung over the bar. “That's so cool. Does the inside rotate?”

“Used to, maybe. It hasn't worked since I've been here.”

“Well, it should.” She stabs at her ice with the skinny red straw and sits back like she's daring him to fix it. “I'd come here all the time if it did.”

Rust recalls all too well the puzzle box charm of twenty-five year old women. Doesn't need to crack 'em anymore but it's a thrill to be this close to one. She's up to something. “You wanna tell me why you're really here?”

“What. I can't stop for a drink wherever I want?”

“'Course you can, it's just nowhere near your ma's or your dad's and I know you didn't come for the atmosphere.” He leans in with both hands firm on the bar. “So let's hear it.”

Her nose squiggles and her voice cranes high. “Can I talk to you, please? In private?”

Goddammit, it looks like she might cry. Twenty-five year old women are like hurricanes. Stupid men think it's just water and wind but Rust knows better. They can level anything.

"Yeah, sure." He consciously softens his voice and stance. "Sorry if I sounded like an ass. Come on.” Bob's eyes drill holes in them, wondering what the fuck's going on as Audrey takes her glass and follows Rust through the back, past a mess of flattened boxes and out the back door.

She hesitates on the packed dirt between the bar and his little house like she won't follow him there, but it doesn't offend Rust because he never expected her to. “Be right back,” he says, and comes out a moment later with his old webbed lawn chairs.

They walk across the road to the battered boat launch and he flings Audrey's chair open for her, then they settle in and appreciate the pinkening clouds in the southeastern sky. “Alright,” he says. “I'm ready whenever you are.”

She takes a deep breath and begins. “Something happened yesterday, and I thought I didn't care but I must 'cause I can't stop thinking about it.” She squirms and unconsciously taps her feet on the old silvered dock boards. “I can't tell mom, can't tell dad, and all the friends I had then aren't the ones I have now. And I don't want to tell the ones I have now. So I'm gonna tell you.”

“Okay. Take your time,” he says. “Actually, hang on a minute.”

He trots across the road and comes back with a crisp white pocket square of cocktail napkins and a beer for himself.

“Like I said, take your time. It's a nice view, huh?”

“Yeah. I can see why you like it out here.” She sucks down the last of her drink with a scratchy whoosh and sets it down. “Do you know about the two guys dad beat up when I was in high school?”

“Um...” Rust downplays just how much he remembers, like the defensive ache he felt over the shamed, closed-in way Audrey carried herself the next time he saw her - because she knew that he knew. “Yeah, I think I might've heard somethin' about that.”

“I saw one of them. At Walgreens. I was picking up a prescription and we tried to pretend we didn't see each other, but... we looked at each other a second too long and basically had to say hi.” She swallows hard. “It wasn't that bad, like he was nice to me. But...” She pauses and Rust hands over a napkin.

“Take your time. You don't even have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“No. I want to,” she sobs, and a tight, constricted sort of crying owns her for a few minutes. “He's got scars. On the side of his face.” Tears smear as she touches her own left cheek. “Right here, it's like a wrinkle with a big chip out of it. Like, I've always felt guilty about it, but after a couple years I framed it in my head that we'd all moved on and nobody thought about it anymore. But he has to see that in the mirror every day.”

Elbows tip to knees; Rust's not sure he should be touching her but sets a hand on her back anyway. “It isn't your fault, Aud. That whole thing was fucked up and none of it's your fault. Not one bit of it.”

“Yeah, well. It still doesn't make me feel great.”

His hand makes slow circles; her sniffs and snorts lessen until mascara-streaked napkins get shoved in her pocket to show she's done. “Anyway, that's it and I don't want to talk about it anymore. Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime.” Rust reclaims his hand when she sits upright and tries to introduce something nicer to talk about. “How've you been up until yesterday? You still live in the Garden District with that boyfriend your ma likes so much?”

"Fuck." Audrey snags another napkin. “We broke up but we're stuck with the apartment for three more months 'cause we don't have the money to break the lease. He's seeing somebody else, too. Not quite fucking her under my nose but close enough. It just about couldn't be worse.”

Rust has a powerful wave of deja vu...like he knows the guy's an asshole even though his only knowledge is from Marty, who heard secondhand from Maggie that he's a prince.

“You deserve better than that, Audrey.”

She dabs at her eyes. “I know.”

Her free hand slides over to his arm with a familiarity that he can't quite place, but her trust's a compliment that he's glad to have. He's always liked Audrey. How could he not be charmed by the ballsy little girl who asked if he'd ever fired his gun and made him hand-drawn valentines up until she graduated high school? Maybe she's always liked him, too.

He hopes it's not creepy that he still has the cards.

“You know what I want?” Audrey says suddenly. “To be so happy that I don't get knocked back so far every time something shitty happens. I don't need anything major, just a nice base level.” She stows the latest cry napkin away and re-crosses her legs. “You've probably thought about stuff like that lately. What do you want, deep down?”

“A new drivetrain for my truck so it'll last forever.”

It's a lousy answer but she doesn't press for a better one, and in the quiet Rust decides if she's revealing big personal stuff then maybe he will, too. She's right - he's thought about it plenty, and a new, soft hum in his blood's gained strength ever since he let it in. “Sometimes I think it might be nice to be in love one last time," he says, looking out across the water. "'Course it's a pretty tall order bein' this broke down and old.”

His arm gets a gentle squeeze. “You're not that old.”

They sit still and silent; a cool, flat blue takes over when the pulsing slice of orange on the horizon fades to gone. Rust can't measure his heart rate because it'd mean displacing Audrey's hand, but he'd guess it's about as slow as the bayou. He wonders how long she'll stay. “Sky's not all that pretty anymore, is it?”

“Yeah, I should probably go. No one knows where I am,” Audrey says. “This was nice, though. I like it out here. Thanks for listening to all my crap.” She draws herself up and folds the chair.

“I'll get that for you.”

“It's okay, I got it."

Rust picks up their empties and they walk back across the road, where Audrey's unafraid to step inside his house. “This is cute,” she lies, taking in the scarecrow furniture and bare walls. “Oh, hey!”

The little windowsill cactus captures her attention, a spiky nub in a clay pot that Rust lovingly feeds water drops off his fingertip every few weeks.

“That showed up in my hospital room. I'm pretty sure it's your dad's way of calling me a prick.”

“No, I gave it to you.”

“Oh.” He gets a slight shiver at first, but then feels horribly exposed. _Oh._

“Sometimes I'd go sit with you after I saw him. Talk to you even though you were asleep and vented a couple times about all my stupid problems.” Her hands disappear up into her sleeves. “That sounds super creepy now that I said it out loud. Anyway, I quit coming after you woke up 'cause dad said you were in a bad way and didn't want company.”

Rust neither confirms nor denies, though at least it explains how he knew about the shitty boyfriend. “I wonder what was worse - the way I looked or the things you said.”

“That big black knot over your eye?” A closed fist over her own mimics it. “Beyond terrible. You were a great listener, though. 'Course you kinda had to be.” She takes Rust's smile as permission to do the same. “And look at us now. You still are!”

“Well, come back any time you want." He holds the door open for her and follows her outside. "We can talk about somethin' more fun next time.”

“God, I hope so.”

They walk out front to her car, but instead of getting in she heads for the bar's front door. “I gotta pay for my drink.”

“Forget it. It's on me," Rust says, and a polite struggle ensues until Audrey gives up and crushes him in the biggest hug she can give.

She's light and little like a hollow-boned bird. “I was scared to come out here at first but I'm so glad I did.”

“Good. Me too.”

“Thanks. For everything.” A flicker of a kiss lands on his cheek and he pats her back and lets go. Her eyes are dewy and her nose is still pink but she doesn't look sad. She looks fresh and almost happy.

“You should talk to your dad about money,” Rust says. “He'd be glad to get you out of that apartment if he knew.”

“Yeah,” she says heavily. “Maybe.”

“No, not maybe. Or if you don't want to ask him, ask me. You shouldn't live there if it makes you unhappy.”

“No, it's okay. I'll talk to him. Thanks, though. I can't believe you'd do that for me.”

“Well, you brought me that cactus," he says. "Think I'm gonna owe you for a while.”

She smiles and gets in the car. “Get back to work, slacker.”

“Yes ma'am.” He shuts her door and pats the roof goodbye as she backs out onto the road. Her hand flaps by the rearview until she's around the bend and he can't see her anymore.

Back inside the bar, Bob's giving him a goddamn look. A smug one, like he's sitting on a smart remark or has opinions and such. “What?” Rust barks. “That's Marty's daughter. Ain't nothing weird about it.”

He gets the closest thing Bob has to a smile as he points up.

A white extension cord snakes up to the ceiling and the Budweiser sign's lit up, all the plastic horses moving in a slow circle of light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has a few non-essential plot ties to [Thousand Color Stare](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1902249), a fic where Rust and Audrey strike up a post-canon friendship that no one else quite knows the boundaries of.

Audrey's drive back to New Orleans will be 45 minutes longer if she goes out to Doumain's, but it feels important to thank Rust one more time. With a single sentence of advice he'd fixed something that was about to snag her in a whirlpool and suck her down, the kind of thing meds will rub up against but can't grip or dissolve.

Her nerves aren't as bad as yesterday, but at the last moment she worries he might not be there at all so it's a relief that the blocky red dinosaur of his truck's out back.

He's there, too, on his knees on the front porch of his little house with a hammer and paper sack of nails. Only when she parks and walks closer does she notice a good chunk of the wood floor's splintered and smashed up with a few new blonde boards fitted in to mask the hole.

The set of his face lightens at the sight of her and he spits a couple of nails into his palm. “Hey."

“What happened?"

"Some drunk got turned around last night and thought they were pulling onto the road 'stead of into my house."

"Shit!"

"Yeah, tell me about it. I was inside and thought it was the end of days." He sits back on his heels and looks her over. "What you doin' all the way out here? Figured you were leaving or gone by now."

"I'm on my way out but I wanted to say thanks again. My dad's giving me a loan and I'm looking for a new place the minute I get home. I'm, like, a million times happier already.”

Rust calculates just how far out of her way she came to say that. "Glad to hear it," he says, and Audrey sits down on the edge of the damage.

"Can I pound a few nails?"

"Be my guest." He ducks inside to crack the beer that was meant to be his reward for the halfway point, but he's tired and sore and not making great progress anyway. "Don't mean to be a bad host but you're driving."

"That's okay," she says, and bangs away. The breeze makes a tendril of hair stick to her mouth off and on and she hits like she's getting paid for it.

"Looks like somebody's got some aggression to work out."

"Yeah." Audrey takes it as a compliment. "I can't stand being around mom lately. Like she's never been this up in my business and it's probably just 'cause she's bored, but I still hate it."

"Does she know about Walgreens and the apartment stuff?"

"God, no." She tucks the flyaway piece behind an ear. "She's so nosy about stuff that doesn't matter there's no way I'd tell her anything like that. But it's funny how I didn't mind telling dad. Some of it, anyway."

"He's real happy that you're talking now."

"Me too. It's weird, though, 'cause we haven't dealt with any of the old bad stuff between us. Maybe we don't need to now, I don't know." She looks down and chews at nothing just like Marty would, and Rust knows of his parallel gratitude and confusion.

"You'll figure it out."

"He likes living with you but says you keep slinking off like a cat."

She reaches for another board but Rust puts his foot down so she can't pick it up. "Knock that off, now, you're doin' too much. Hey, there's a thing I gotta show you in the bar. You'll love it, come on."

He leads her inside and sets her at the center bar stool. "Looky here.” He switches on the Budweiser lamp and the Clydesdales and carriage grind in a circle.

“Ah! How'd you fix it?”

“It wasn't plugged in.”

“Hmm.” It hypnotizes her a moment. “Is it easy to pop open the shell?"

"Don't know. Why?"

"You could put a naked Polly Pockets in it and see if anybody notices. I'm not joking, either. Next time I'm here I'll totally bring you one.”

Rust shakes his head. Maggie once classed this place up for about two minutes, but there's no verb to describe what Audrey does to it because she's the most alive person to ever walk through the door. He clears his throat. "I can mix you a go-cup, if you want. Like a Peychaud's and orange juice, nothin' illegal."

"Okay. Thanks."

Bob appears from the back with a nod hello and the clink and slide of him taking quarters from the cash register sets Rust off. "Dammit Bob, just don't, okay? Don't."

Bob shuts the drawer and mutters something rueful to Rust before exiting.

"Doesn't he, like, own the place?" Audrey whispers. "What was that all about?"

"Mr. Doumain likes to imply we're in a May-December relationship. Which is a pretty big insult to you, if you think about it."

"Oh." She sits a bit taller and takes care to appear unconcerned. "I don't see what that has to do with taking money out of the till."

"There's a horrible old song on the jukebox he thinks applies to my situation."

It thrills her so much she _bounces._ "Oh my God! Really? What is it?"

"Nothin' you need to know about." He slides over a plastic cup. "You better go."

"But you can't just say that and not tell me!"

"I just did. Come on, I'll walk you out."

He ushers her out front with a palm on her back, and they're both much more aware of the hug and the cheek-kiss and whether they can be seen through the window than they were yesterday. "You drive careful, okay?"

"Okaaay," Audrey promises with mock-guilt and Rust watches until she's around the bend and gone. He should go back and work on the porch but he's ornery and goes back in for the free double he deserves for being embarrassed like that.

Of course Bob's quarters are sliding down the metal throat of the jukebox. "It occurs to me I could report this establishment for over-serving the asshole that hit my porch last night," Rust says in the midst of a very generous pour. "And if I hear one fucking note of Gary Puckett I might just do it."

Bob gives the closest thing he has to a smile and plays _Young Girl_ anyway.

*

Rust's irritated enough to abandon the porch project and drive back over to Marty's, where the spare room is the welcoming bisque-colored square he loves.

Marty's folding laundry and watching football. "Figured you'd drag your sorry ass back before Monday. I hope you got a stomachache from eating all that fuckin' pie."

Rust completely forgot about the pie. "How's your weekend?"

"Real good." Marty pauses to sniff a crumpled sheet of fabric softener. "I spent a nice chunk of time with Audrey. Like we talked about her life an' all. She's had some rough stuff to deal with but she's figuring it out. We settled on the poker metaphor that even a bad hand can be played well."

"That's a good one."

"Yeah, I was kinda proud of it."

With Doumain's heckling miles away, Rust allows himself a little happiness for his hand in the situation. It's nice to picture her and her go-cup, on the way to a new apartment and new everything else.

*

As the year lengthens and the father/daughter rift continues to smooth out, he serves as Marty and Audrey's prop whenever they need it. Sometimes Marty gets tapped out and they talk about art. Sometimes they gang up on him, which Marty paradoxically seems to enjoy. Audrey pages through Rust's old ledgers and takes him to a midnight showing of _The Room_ when she can't get anyone else to go.

He becomes her de facto smoke buddy when Maggie hosts dinner, and the one time Maggie makes a careless hint that Audrey should be crapping out grandchildren she storms outside to pout. Rust follows and they talk about voodoo and play hangman in her little sketchbook.

Rust loses, even after she gives him two extra chances by outfitting the hung man with a pair of cowboy boots.

 

**GROSS DOMESTIC PRODUCT**

 

Later that night he fishes the paper out of his pocket and realizes _it's a comment on human reproduction._

A switch flips between his spine and gut and he wants to see her all the time, not just when she's visiting her parents. She's smart and funny and just what he needs in this weird coming-back-to-life chrysalis he's in the middle of, like a bridge between old and new, dark and light.

He starts to look forward to her visits just as much as Marty does and tries not to think too much about why. He's never considered her Sophia's understudy, though the first time he saw her it might've crossed his mind. But he doesn't think about it now, not when they watch the World Series of Poker in the name of psychological research, or when she makes him fish his beer bottle out of the trash and gives him a fire and brimstone lecture about recycling.

Sometimes he still drinks too much, and when he does, he considers Audrey from angles he can't manage when sober. Like maybe he's attracted to the safety that nothing will ever happen with her, because as much as he wants to open himself up to that kind of thing again, he probably won't.

Or maybe they get along because so much of his life stopped when he was about her age.

That's probably it, he thinks, when he looks out on the pink bayou sunset and remembers the night he watched it with her.

It can't be more than that.

*

He feels almost right again during a long dry stretch owing to Audrey spending Thanksgiving with friends, but in December he gets almost more than he can handle.

They're alone together on Christmas day, knocking assigned items off Maggie's kitchen to-do list while everyone else is at church. "Mom sure stacked the list tall," Audrey says, stripping the peel off parsnips. She's wearing a simple dress of deep red that's cut modest enough, but it pours off her like Maker's Mark wax. "Probably to keep us busy and out of trouble."

"You think?" Rust's job is massaging tarnish off of fork tines. "I got the feeling she thought it was more businesslike than condescending when she asked us to please not drink." It bothered him, a little. But she was wary of him and Audrey together and he supposed there was a shred of a reason for that.

They continue working in silence until Audrey disappears and comes back with four fingers of Bunnahabhain.

Rust gives a reluctant smile. "You know I can't say no."

"That's why I did it."

“Thanks.”

They exchange a warm look and put their heads down to work a little more. “Don't know if Santa brought you anything this year," Rust says. "But I didn't get jack shit.”

“Probably 'cause you were bad.”

"Excuse me?”

“You're a dirty old man." Her holiday lipstick grin's as exaggerated as folk art. "The way you look at me's enough to knock you off the good list forever.”

“Not true,” he says, and takes a heavy sip of scotch. “I'll have you know I'm careful to never look at you that way.”

“So you _think_ of me that way but won't _look_ at me that way.” Her smile's like the red-white of a fucking road flare. “Is that what you're saying?”

Half the scotch disappears. “I ain't sayin' nothin'.”

Silence. Then a landslide of laughter that feels so good it's the best thing that happens that day.

Maggie seems vaguely confused when she comes home, as if she expected to find _in flagrante delicto_ or a smoking crater where the house used to be. Rust and Audrey both know it and keep their amusement packed down in their guts all through dinner.

When they're smoking outside afterward and sharing a meringue mushroom stolen off the Buche de Noel, Audrey says, “Even though neither of us care about Christmas, I wish I'd gotten you a present.”

Rust looks up into the night sky. “I was just thinkin' the exact same thing about you."

"What would you have gotten me?"

Earrings, he thinks. Deceptively simple ones that could be passed off as department store but might have been the real thing. "Cigarettes," he says, and gets a high-pitched squeal of thanks. He doesn't ask what she'd get him because whatever it is he might long for it too much.

"I don't know what I'd get you. Seems like you'd be hard to shop for. I bet that's the lament of women all your life, right?"

"I've heard it before."

"Hmm. Hey, I know! A pair of my underwear."

Rust's skull could just about split. "Don't be sayin' that kind of stuff."

"Why not?"

"Because it ain't nice to toy with the dessicated heart of an old man."

"Maybe I'm not playing." She shoves his arm and they slip into an odd limbo where outrageous things are said.

"Looks like somebody mighta got a little Electra Complex for Christmas."

"Please. You're the polar opposite of my dad."

"True, but have you ever got a good look at me? Maybe Santa shoulda brought you glasses." He catches a fake punch in the palm of his hand and takes his time letting go. "Big-ass Coke bottle glasses."

"A normal person would appreciate this kind of attention and take it as a compliment."

"Maybe so, but you might wanna make a New Year's resolution to get your head checked."

"Your resolution's not to think about my underwear and you've already broken it ten times, perv."

It's too much. "Audrey..."

“Settle down," she says, and kicks his shin softly. "I don't mind.”

*

Marty elects to close the office for the post-Christmas week and Rust's apathetic and bored on the twenty seventh, sitting around the house with terrible posture and very little to show for his holiday time off. He ought to go back out to Bob's to finish the long-abandoned porch project but the odds of dinner invitations and sparring with Audrey are better if he stays put. He works it into conversation with Marty while they're watching TV and slowly demolishing a pecan-studded port wine cheese ball that Maggie made them take home. "I'm not used to eatin' like this."

"Me neither. But it's the holidays. Considering we both could've been dead this year I'd say we had a pretty good one."

"True," Rust agrees, and sticks two broken crackers together with cheese. "When's Audrey headed back?"

"Pretty soon, I think. She's helping a friend throw a New Year's Eve party so we might not see her before she leaves."

"Oh," Rust says. The thought of that party makes him feel jealous and old.

"Speakin' of, with the new year coming up I'm thinking about changin' up the business," Marty says. "Legalities and whatnot, structure it to make you a partner if that makes sense. If you want it."

"I guess," Rust says.

"That's not the enthusiasm level I'd hoped for, but-"

"No, I mean if it makes sense, then yeah. If it don't, it won't hurt my feelings any. It's your business." He hopes he looks sincere because he means every word of this. "Put it this way: I want whatever you want."

"Okay," Marty says, and goes in for another cracker.

Almost all of Rust's biggest decisions have been made by other people.

At least that's the conclusion he arrives at that later night when he can't sleep.

He's en route to the kitchen for a cup of that flowery-ass bedtime tea of Marty's when their land line blares like a siren; he sprints to answer so Marty won't wake up. There's a crackle and whirl of color on the other end of the line. “Hello? Can you come get me? It's Audrey. Hello?”

“Hey. Where're you at?”

“Can you hear me? I'm fuckin' wasted. Can you come get me an' take me back to my mom's house?”

“Tell me where you're at.”

“Don't tell my dad.”

“I won't. Where are you?”

She's in the parking lot of some random strip mall up north, and it feels good to drive with a jacked-up pulse and a mission. He's more important than Maggie or Marty right now because he won't yell at her and he can fix this. For everybody, and it pushes him back to where he was and where he should be - a close friend of the family. A second father.

She's right where she said she'd be and slides into the truck.

“Does my dad know you're here?”

“I doubt it. He sleeps like a dead man with that white noise machine.”

“Good. Thanks.”

He drives a few blocks and can't help but notice she's poised, neither loud nor bleary. “How are you holdin' it together so well?”

“I haven't had a drink all night, I just wanted to get you alone.”

“Audrey...” Whatever this is, the only possible answer is no.

“Park someplace and give me thirty seconds. I'll set a timer and everything. Come on, what can happen in half a minute?”

Fuck. “Not much, I hope.”

She interprets that as consent and taps through some steps on her phone. “Pull over. Over there, where it's dark.” He does as he's told and she sets the phone on the dash, then folds up the center console and slides over.

He closes his eyes to make it easier. Five soft, plasticy clicks happen to his side and she swings over to straddle him with all her weight. Five clicks happen down his front and she folds his shirt open and presses her warm skin against his and holds him.

That's it.

For twenty seconds his fingertips cross over the dip of her backbone. She smells of soap and smoke and it's like he's fifteen again, scared and overwhelmed by how far this kind of feeling stretches him out.

The alarm tings. “You want this to stop?”

_No._

He disappears in the smell and powder-soft feel of her, loves the electric tickle of being touched. She bends into his nose tracing her neck and says, “I want us to think about it. I'm coming back for Presidents Day weekend in February and I'm sure we can find a way, if we both want to.” She shifts in his lap so he can feel where the pinkness of her turns coral. “I want to.”

It's like being drugged, and he's torn between aching to fuck her and wanting to fall asleep. Audrey's hand works behind his head and after a good tug her fingers are combing through his hair. “We could meet up like this and no one'll ever know. Think about it. That's all I'm saying.”

"Aud-"

"Shh. We'll talk about it next month."

She draws back and re-buttons his shirt, then swings off of him and back into her own seat. The phantom warmth and weight of her lingers for a moment, then dissolves into Rust's lap.

He strains for a joke. “Guess I'm not gonna sleep tonight,” is all he can come up with, and the engine grinds with an unholy scrape when he turns the key since it's already running. Audrey pretends not to notice as she buttons her shirt and when he drops her off at her car, she slips out without a word.

All the house lights are still off when he gets home and the inside's quiet as stone, save the soft respiration of Marty's white noise machine behind his bedroom door. Rust feels physically different and realizes it's partly because his hair's down loose.

He would bet money his elastic's on Audrey's wrist.

Marty wakes up oblivious as ever while the night before rolls over and over in Rust like the tide. He barely remembers what Audrey was like when she was little, but he'd known her then. That's enough reason not to.

He doesn't see her parents in her anymore, has seen her as a separate person ever since that awful thing when she was sixteen, but then there's that to consider. Absent father, driven to seek male attention...but then there's a teetering stack of Psych101 bullshit on his side, too, like the way he always subconsciously engineers it so women will dump him within the same two-year window as his mother. He's certainly been matched up worse than this and maybe he's drawn to Audrey's frayed edge of darkness because it lessens the need to explain his own.

The best way out of this is that she'll find someone her own age who's good enough for her.

But then he worries, for both of them, that no such person exists.

*

Presidents Day weekend finds them all at Maggie's for Friday night dinner, and Rust wonders if could tell the difference if he were on the outside. Audrey's a little more quiet than usual and he's a little more engaged, tries a bit harder in conversation instead of rolling over and letting the hosts talk the most, even if it's about Audis and stuff nobody else cares about. Audrey smiles gently whenever their eyes meet and somebody really ought to spackle over that faint little dimple she gets on the right side. What an unfair advantage.

The usual question surfaces at the usual time. “Wanna smoke, young lady?”

“I guess,” she says in a bored manner that suits her, and follows him outside.

Her lipstick's hung on throughout dinner but leaves a print on her cigarette paper. “So. Have you thought about it?” she asks.

“Haven't thought about much else, really.”

She smiles knowingly. “I thought we could meet really late like last time and find a quiet place to park. Or if you think we could get away with it, out at your place behind the bar.”

Rust exhales smoke out the side of his mouth. “I can't do it.”

"Is that a comment on physical ability or...something else?"

“The latter," he says, and delivers the line that's eaten at his stomach lining for weeks. "Doesn't mean I don't want to but there's too many reasons not to.”

“Oh,” she says, and because her voice is about to wobble she doesn't say anything at all.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I mean, no was always an option. I just never thought you'd say it."

Rust's mind reels through how bad this is. If Marty knew about what happened in the truck he'd kill him. Like straight up fucking _kill_ him, and it's a small miracle no one's called them out on their over-familiarity already. And now Audrey looks upset enough to tell the world. "I hope this doesn't fuck stuff up for us."

“It won't." She snuffs out her cigarette with two inches of tobacco left which indicates that it is indeed fucked up. He didn't frame it right, didn't convey what she means to him, though even if he had a month and ten pens clipped to a blank ledger book he still couldn't articulate it.

But once they get back inside, looking guilty of something, he's sure, she's totally herself. Not sad, not even remotely vulnerable.

She zones out and works in her little sketchbook like she always does when bored at the table. It stings a little but it's what Rust reluctantly wants - to be unimportant. Forgotten, and they're all in the lull of a conversation about the tax implications of Marty's company shifting from a sole proprietorship to an LLC when she gets up to refill the ice water pitcher in the kitchen. On the way, she slips him a note.

 

**_Maybe just once._ **

 

He wads it into a pocket and gets another upon her return.

 

**_To get it out of our systems._ **

 

He mouths _knock it off_ as stern as he can when no one's looking, and it hurts her; a sweet vulnerability creeps in and he aches to dip into it and spread it like finger-paint.

"So, Rust," Marty says. "On the surface it looks good, don't you think?"

"Yeah," he lies. He barely knows what they're talking about and Audrey's eyes are as deep and soft as he's ever seen them.

She screws up her mouth and buckles down with her pencil, either writing a novel or re-creating Vitruvian Man with all her little hatches and strokes. Rust worries and sweats. He and Marty didn't drive separate so he can't sneak out and he reaches a toe out to nudge her and beg her with his eyes to stop, but in his attempt he accidentally kicks Marty.

"Sorry," he mutters. "Didn't mean to."

Marty notices Audrey's great interest and adds it all up. “What the hell are you two up to?” he asks. “'Sides bein' rude at the dinner table. Give me that.”

“No,” Audrey says as he reaches to grab her wrist. He laughs, she struggles. “Dad, God!” She wrenches the page out of the book but Marty wrestles it away and Rust wishes he could die on the spot.

“Well well,” Marty says, unfolding the crumpled paper. “Glad Valentine's Tidings indeed.” He holds up a tiny retablo of a floating Cupid leading a rose-wreathed camel. It's passed around the table and admired, ending with Rust, who smooths the wrinkles and promises to keep it forever.

“Nice to see my eldest daughter channel her talent into something useful,” Marty says.

“Well I figured Creepy Uncle Rust doesn't get too many valentines these days.”

“I don't figure Creepy Uncle Rust gets any ever,” Marty says, and Rust chokes on a sip of water. It's not fair. A thimbleful has him hacking like he might die.

“Y'all are horrible people,” he wheezes when he can speak again. “Thank you, Audrey.”

Her smile's warm and bright. “You're welcome.”

Maggie's husband David resumes the conversation. "Marty, we can run a tax simulation in my office right now, if you want. It'll only take a minute."

"Yeah, okay. I need to see it laid out 'fore it'll make any sense, I guess." They leave the dining room so fast Rust's stuck there like a fool, trapped between Maggie and Audrey. Once again he wouldn't mind a tap from death on his shoulder.

Maggie stands and surveys the aftermath on the table; Rust never offers to help because he knows she'll refuse but right now, it's all he's got. "Can I help with dishes or somethin'?"

"No, but you could take some things downstairs, if you don't mind. Audrey can show you where everything goes." She loads them up with a china platter, a heavy white steel KitchenAid mixer with attachments, and a fourth bottle of wine they didn't drink.

Rust has a question on the stairs. "Why didn't she use the mixer on the counter? The green one?"

"It's not green, dumbass, it's celadon," Audrey says. "That one's just for show. Isn't that weird?"

"It ain't normal."

"Like, I don't wanna be broke, but I don't want to be rich either if it means doing stuff like that."

"Hear hear," Rust says, and it feels a bit like they're back where they started, before she asked and before he said no.

The storage room's full of interesting things. A decorative paper kite hung in one corner. Shelved accent pillows from another season. Audrey pauses when things are put away with hands in her back pockets, like she still wants these little pieces of privacy when they happen.

“When you coming back?” Rust asks.

“I dunno. Maybe next month. April for sure. Why?"

He isn't sure why he's asking, but Audrey seems to. "Once you start thinking about it it's hard not to, huh. Feels like it's gonna wear us down." She sways at the waist and looks down, sad.

"Audrey, you know in another time an' place this'd be a lot different."

She nods. "I'm sorry about the notes, but I seriously thought you felt the same way. I feel like an idiot for throwing myself at you now."

"Don't. It probably added ten years to my life feeling like that again."

"So what bothers you the most? The age difference?"

"Some, but mostly your parents."

"That's why we'd keep it secret."

"Okay, but all that aside, we both know you can do a hell of a lot better than me."

"See, I don't think so. I've thought about it a lot and I think we'd be good for each other. We already are, you know? Like neither one of us could be described as chronically happy, but when we're together it's always good." Her voice lowers. "And that's why I want to, even if it's only an hour every couple months. I like you and I wanna be with you."

It's windowless. And the door opens to the inside and no one will ever know what happens in here.

"Is your stepdad's office down here?"

"Two doors that way. Why?"

Rust closes the door slow and silent and plants a heel firmly against it. "Come here."

For all that's led up to this, she's cautious and shy.

"Come here," he repeats, and when she does, his thumbs frame her cheekbones and fingers fan out on her neck. He kisses her forehead, and the scent of her throws him back to the truck. "I want it like you can't believe." He traces a thumb down the line of her throat until it rests just above her pulse. "An' I don't know what's worse, the days you're here or the days you're not."

Her hand hooks on his wrist. "Does that mean you've changed your mind?"

"No, but I'll make you a deal. If we're still having this conversation when you turn thirty, then...maybe yeah."

"Maybe yeah," Audrey taunts, delight brewing in her eyes. Her nails bite sudden crescents into his skin and everything seems to lift. "That's the best you can do?"

"Well, I figure you'll come to your senses by then."

"I could say the same about you," she says as he lets her go. The dimple surfaces as she sighs with a tired sort of contentment. "I'm gonna go upstairs and pretend this didn't happen. For four years, I guess. You seriously think you can wait that long?"

"I'm sure as hell gonna try."

"Okay." Her smile's as skeptical as it is droll. "Good luck."

She leaves the closet first and Rust enjoys the view as she heads upstairs. This might be the worst idea he's ever had but he doesn't feel it yet; he doesn't feel anything but good.

"Rust!" Marty roars from the bedroom-cum-office nearby. "You still down here? C'mere and look at this!"

He looks over Marty's shoulder at a spreadsheet of numbers with color-shaded columns that mean different things. Me, you, us, them. The state and Uncle Sam. David drags his finger up and down the computer screen with accompanying CPA gibberish.

"What do you think?" Marty asks.

"Don't matter what I think, it's your business."

"I want you part of it, though. Permanent-like, so quit bein' a noncommittal jackass and tell me what you think. This is a lot more about you than me, you know." The blue glow of the screen on Marty's face makes him look strangely young. "I'd offer you a helpful poker metaphor but I'm fresh out."

The numbers swim; they mean almost nothing to Rust and likely wouldn't even under normal circumstances. But it might be okay to bob in the current and let his two favorite Harts lead him around by the nose; it hasn't exactly been terrible so far. Marty catches him smiling at the thought. "So?"

Rust closes a hand on his shoulder. "It looks good."

"So that's a yes?"

"Yeah," he says, and punctuates it with a squeeze. "Guess I'm all in."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone still reading, I'm sorry this took so long and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Towards the end, the Atlanta section is written about in detail in the previous fic in this series. No need to read it if you don't want to, it's just some of the same events from the perspective of are-they-or-aren't-they, and in this one they *coff* definitely are. ;)

If Rust stops to really think about it, he feels like a paper boat washed down a storm drain that should've turned to instant pulp but somehow made it past the buoys and out to sea.

Being unexpectedly alive's been a big part of that. So's his closeness with Marty, not to mention the thing with Audrey that's been hovering on some weird blush-colored bandwidth below love. He finds himself paying attention to songs again and doesn't ridicule Marty when he makes burnt sugar tar in all their saucepans trying to caramelize nuts for salad, operating on the rumor that "ladies love it." While the pans soak in hot water, they honest to God go to Heymann Park with a six pack and skip rocks in the river. It was Rust's idea.

It's as if his odometer's been rolled back to an age he barely remembers, that narrow window when he was happy more often than he wasn't.

*

Work-related spats still happen but don't carry the old weight and disgust with the world. The latest proves that Rust has no business answering the phone.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Marty roars, but it's a rhetorical question so Rust doesn't answer.

He feels small under the overhead fluorescents. "I thought it was beneath us but I guess we aren't in a position to turn down business."

"Damn right we aren't." Marty says, and the cavernous emptiness of the office makes him sound more upset than he is. "It's not like big glamorous cases and fresh occult murders occur in our neighborhood every day. So long as the money's green, we'll take it."

"Her number's prolly still in the phone, I'll call her back." It was a woman who suspected her housekeeper of stealing a beloved pet cat. Nothing against cats but it sounded beneath them. "I guess I didn't think you wanted to do that kind of stuff."

Marty sighs. "I guess it's on me for not discussing business in any great depth outside putting your name on it."

Rust nods, because he's thought that, too.

"Be completely honest." Marty shifts posture in his chair. "What would you do different?"

Rust divines the request for honesty as only half true but dispenses it anyway. "I don't like this location. There's too much overhead." His arm waves high. "Like literally too much overhead. Look at all this fuckin' space."

"And what do you suggest instead?"

"I think we should get one of those old houses that's zoned for business. Something inconspicuous. People'd be more comfortable in an environment like that. Hell, I know I would be."

"What else?"

"The logo's too Captain America. And I don't care if my name's on it but you gotta lose the 'Solutions.' It's too cocky."

Marty's paying close attention. "Okay. Anything else?"

"I think we should keep a low profile. Do cold case consulting, maybe get a government retainer and work on the Tuttle stuff on the side 'cause you know there's lots more we don't know yet." The ideal future office unfolds in his mind and there's one room just for that with the windows masked off, and an office for himself with lots of shelves for books. And maybe a dorm fridge for beer.

They talk about it some more, look for a space and a lawyer's brought in to splice Rust in as a partner. There's paperwork and a part time admin hire so Rust doesn't have to deal with the phone and he gets the house-like situation he wants; the understated sign out front could be a law office or even a podiatrist's shingle from a distance. Marty gets the big downstairs office with leaded glass panels and a fancy new desk. Rust takes his old one, and he believes his upstairs office must've been a bedroom back in the day, with a tree outside that gives his window friendly taps in the wind. He loves it. It's perfect.

Anyone walking upstairs causes telltale stair squeaks. "Office-warming present." Marty flops a ten-pack stack of blank ledgers on his former desk.

"Oh. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Forgive my rudeness, but that chair looks like a dried-out swamp find. Where the fuck did you get that thing? Is there even a name for that color?"

"It's an old one Bob didn't want."

"I think we can do better than that," Marty says. "Man, you gotta be less shy about doin' nice stuff for yourself. You're running out of time to, you know? Before you know it the definition of 'nice' will degenerate to tapioca pudding and a PBS Lawrence Welk marathon."

"Fuck that, I got all the time in the world. You said yourself I'm unkillable."

"You may well be, but still," Marty says, and plants a soft jab on his shoulder. "Live a little."

*

Once they're settled in Marty decides to have an open house. Something low-key to get the word out, but it ends up being booze and war stories and recounting his own greatest hits on his favorite stage.

Rust's treated with friendly skepticism but Marty's still the only one anybody wants to talk to. As if Rust gives a shit. He plays along for half an hour and heads upstairs so he can't be accused of flat-out leaving.

Marty said Audrey's in town and might stop by, which makes Rust simultaneously giddy and mad at himself for being giddy. He'll never know what possessed her to lure him out of the house and proposition him in his own truck, nor does he know what propelled him to say maybe someday.

Biological weakness has gotta be some of it.

Total stupidity, too.

When she comes there's only a handful of people left but they're the drunkest and loudest ones. His insides seize up at the indistinct sounds of her voice admiring Marty's office, and he sits up straighter when he hears her head up the stairs.

She knocks on the door frame with one knuckle, carrying two rocks glasses with rocks and a nearly empty bottle of Evan Williams pinched under her arm. "Hey, ashtray," she says. "Congratulations on your fancy new orifice."

"Thank you. And watch your mouth."

She sits down across his desk and pours him a drink twice as tall as her own. "My dad's so cute telling all his dumb stories while everybody eats it up."

"It's kinda what he does. Lucky for me, I was down there half an hour and everybody got wore out pretendin' they don't hate me."

"You're such a drama queen."

It's an embarrassing truth but he loves it when she ribs him like that. She's got on a loose black tunic he's seen her in before and it's nice to feel so familiar; her hair's down in loose waves and he likes that, too. "What's new with you?"

"Not much, except I sold a painting for Wednesday at the Square. You know what that is? It's a concert series in Lafayette Park with vendors and crap like crawfish nachos. It's gonna be the poster for next season."

The whiskey carves out a nice slow burn in Rust's stomach. "Good for you."

"Thanks. I won't make much off it but it's good to have it out there."

"Send us one and we'll hang it up."

"I will." They sip in silence a while, looking at each other and then at the bare walls when caught. Audrey looks for the little cactus she brought during his hospital stay and likes that it has a spot of prominence on the windowsill.

"Next week I'll have enough to pay my dad back all that apartment money. I bet he thought I'd let it go but I'm not."

It's true; Marty fully expected to write it off. "That's good. He'll need it to pay off tonight's liquor tab."

Rust starts adding up her adult successes and tries not to notice the way her lower lip touches her glass a moment longer than necessary when footsteps hit the stairs. They both straighten up because from the gait, it has to be Marty.

"Hey! Y'all having a consultation up here?" he asks. "Wait. Don't answer that, 'cause I know one of you's gonna say something rude about trackin' down my lost hairline. Anyway, some of us were thinking 'bout going to Not So Fast Eddie's and you're both invited. Audrey, they've got shuffleboard and I think Golden Tee, too."

"I'm out," Rust says. "But y'all have fun."

"We're gonna finish what's downstairs and I'm okay to drive. I been talking so damn much I hardly drank anything."

"I'll be right down," Audrey says, and looks Rust over once her father's gone. "You should come."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Because somebody in that room'll see how it is with us and give your dad an earful."

"But he likes that we're friends."

"Because he's used to it. You're a walkin' fuckin' cherry stem tied in a knot and someone who doesn't know us is gonna pick up on it."

She gets up and perches on the edge of his desk. "Then stay away from me."

"No point going, then."

Pleasure spreads into a subdued smile. "You talk like we're already fucking."

Those words out of her mouth tickle the bottom of his gut and it isn't Evan Williams' fault because he hasn't had nearly enough. A couple long months of trying and failing not to think about what she'd dangled in front of him has him worn about as thin as an old flour-sack rag and now she's tipping toward him to smell his hair.

What shape might this take if it weren't hemmed in on all sides, he wonders, like if he'd met her in a bar and didn't know her parents. Chances are any parents would hate him over the age difference, but she's grown and nobody could stop them. Hell, technically no one can stop them now. He's turned her proposition over and over in his mind, looking for flaws but she set it up brilliantly. They're both known insomniacs...if they meet in secret in the middle of the night, who would ever know?

"What you got goin' on later?" His hand closes on her knee with a gentle squeeze and he doesn't know where it's coming from, just that it's coming. "Like, much later."

"You got something in mind?"

"I think you know what. If you still want to."

Eyes widen and her legs windmill off the desk; she pulls the pushpin out of the wall calendar and pages back to February and taps weeks off with her fingertip and a few _tsks_ of triumph. "Fifty six days. That's all it took for you to cave. Remind me what you said in my mom's basement? How long you wanted to wait?"

"Four years," he groans, resigned. As if the milestone of her thirtieth birthday would exempt them from parental rage if they're found out. Probably nothing will, so fuck it. "Your dad said I should do more nice things for myself."

She loves that. "He's right, you should."

*

They meet late at night and take the truck out to a remote back road where they'll never be found. Maggie's laid low by Lunesta and Marty's got the white noise machine and never knows a thing, just that he kicks ass and had a good night.

Audrey's silent for a change and the air between them snaps with electricity; seconds after Rust parks she's in his lap, all kisses and tongue and hands and he's hit by the heady fast-forward he remembers from meth. It's almost hard to keep up and he gets her wrists behind her for a thick, thrilling moment. "You're like bein' with a damn octopus."

"Ha." She struggles out of his grip and her hands are all over him again, in his hair, undoing buttons, framing his face as they kiss like it's the only chance they'll ever have. A hand searches for his scar and he trembles when it's found...her kisses get softer and sweeter for a moment, but then air whistles between his teeth as she grabs at him. He's not used to be touched, like this or at all, and she takes charge and somehow gets him undone even with their mouths locked together. He stalls a while, kissing every part of her he can reach and loving how she leans and whimpers into it. Fingers find their way up her little jersey skirt and the second he feels how wet she is he can almost taste it, clean and bright as the ocean.

She pushes up her skirt, straddles him the same as the original proposition, and sinks down with a groan that's almost more than he can stand. She adjusts, moves her legs a little and he's in even deeper. "You know what I want?"

Christ, what a thing to ask. "You better tell me."

"I want you to fuck me till I can't walk straight."

Rust says nothing but closes his eyes and falls into her plans, drops down into the elusive frequency were sex is like a hot bump tearing through him nice and slow. Once they fall into the rhythm of it her voice is like a gymnast's ribbon, curling all up and around him. They're a good fit. Rosebud breasts just shy of a handful push against his hands and it takes a while to notice that Audrey's eyes are open. Maybe they've been open the whole time but she looks away and quiets; he shifts and worries he isn't doing what she wants, but then she suddenly tenses and gasps, hands gripping the edge of the seat behind him as she cries out and wriggles in his lap.

Then she slows and slumps against his shoulder with a soft exhale. _"Woo."_

"Did you...?"

"Uh huh."

It's a relief. He kisses her neck and could stay still like this for days.

"Why? Were you worried?"

"Little."

"Aw. I'm lucky 'cause it's always been easy for me. Good news for you, I guess."

"I guess." He gently collects her hair and pulls it back in a temporary ponytail with a ring made of his thumb and forefinger, then pulls through to the ends and it feels so nice he keeps doing it. "Think it'll happen again?"

"I know it will."

"Well." Rust tries to remember when he's ever had it this easy and with whom, but his memory's useless because she spreads her arms wide and arches back so far her head's against the dash. The moon's out and the white expanse of her is more than he can stand; she rocks her hips and the movement carries up her in waves and it's so good he wouldn't stop even if Marty was tapping a .38 on the window. Her moans climb, getting closer together and before long he's half a breath behind her and it's too much. She sits up and wraps her arms around his neck. "Put your hands on my ass. Yeah, like that. Fuck, I'm so close...try to come with me."

It's an excellent idea but something inside him goes wrong, like one wild pebble preceding a landslide.

“Audrey.” His heart bucks so hard it's suffocating. “Hey, stop.”

She's moaning and doesn't hear; he clamps down on her with all the strength in his arms. With the pressure in his chest, he almost can't.

 _”Hold still.”_ He's dizzy, sick, and a creeping tightness grips his neck. “Audrey, stop, you're gonna kill me.”

“Are you...”

“Shh. Just stop." A pleasureless pulse suggests his dick's finishing without him; Audrey's arms circle his shoulders and it's maybe his longest minute ever, long enough to think about the insanity of this. The dull, dark ache creeps into his jaw and he thinks about all the times he's driven drunk or high, having Ginger tied up in the back, and the taillight smashed by Marty's spine.

All of it added up isn't half as bad as this.

“Are you having a heart attack?”

He finds enough air and the hammering slows. “Shh."

"Rust-" She pushes up on her knees but then she's scared to move and sinks back down. "You're scaring the shit out of me."

"It's too damn much. We gotta stop.”

"I'll drive you to the emergency room."

Should he? "Let's wait. I think it's going away."

"Rust-"

"Give me a minute. I just wanna lie down."

"Okay. Can I move? I'll be careful. Is this okay? Fuck..."

The sensory reality of disengaging is humiliating - the smell, the wet and cold of being separate and she cradles his head in her lap against the scent of what they just did. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No. It's not that bad."

"Then I'll take you out to Bob's and stay with you. It's okay, I can lie my way out of anything with my mom."

"Shh. Not tonight."

It's so much worse than the usual post-coital disgust where he doesn't want to be touched, spoken to, or looked at, and he can't believe all the buildup's been for a disaster of this magnitude. This is his punishment for wanting what he can't have and the irreversible taste makes it so much worse. Involuntary tears drain out the sides of his eyes as she strokes his hair and waits. Part of him wishes he'd flat-out died, but then...that'd be pretty awful for her, wouldn't it.

He finally squeezes her elbow. "I think it's gone."

"Has it ever happened before?"

"No. Well, once. A couple weeks ago when I was movin' a bunch of file boxes upstairs and everything got real tight but it wasn't this bad."

"God. Then you should definitely see somebody. Oops, okay. Here." She tries to help when he groans and creaks upright. They re-assemble themselves and Audrey says a handful of gentle things to make him feel better but Rust doesn't hear them.

"We should get you back to your car," he says, wiping his eyes. "I'm real sorry about all this."

"It's okay," she says, but fear catches up on the drive back and she starts crying quietly.

“Please don't," Rust says. "I'm fine, but...I think it's a pretty big sign we shouldn't be doin' this kinda stuff.” He's a fool for dipping a toe into this at all, and he hardens up and readies an argument that's nagged him since this all started.

Her tears roll up into sobs; he's never been able to talk women out of crying and always makes it worse when he tries, but still, he tries. “You're fun as hell and I'm not sorry about anything, but...besides the obvious, this ain't real, Audrey. Sneaking around for a couple hours a month ain't real. You'll be a lot happier with someone who can give you what you want."

"I want _you,_ asshole."

It's just the kind of backhanded affection he adores from her, but he stays firm. "You only think you do. If we had a whole weekend together you'd hate me by the end. I'd drink, we'd fight...”

“About what? Religion? Kids, like that friend of my mom's?” She scoffs and shuts off the tears like a professional. “That's not a real reason. You're scared. It's okay, I get it. I am, too.”

Rust has no answer for that.

“Make an appointment with dad's cardiologist. I'm serious. If something happens to you...and it's not about getting caught, either. Monday morning, you call.”

“Fine,” he says. “Since we're making demands, don't ever call me Rustin in front of your old man again.”

“I won't. That was dumb and I'm sorry.”

Nothing's said the rest of the way back to her car, though when Audrey gets out of the truck she says, “You can push me away all you want but you don't get to decide whether or not I love you. Look at me.”

He can't.

"Rust, look at me."

He doesn't. "It took a lot of nerve for me to come out here and this is the last thing I thought would happen. I'm gonna be upset about it a while and it's got nothing to do with you. I'm sorry."

She softens and seems to understand. "Call me after your appointment, okay? I want to know what's going on."

He nods but won't look up. "Goodnight."

He waits for her car to start up and dart off into the darkness. As awful as he feels, his heart's cooperating so the emergency room's out. All he knows is he can't be under Marty's roof right now.

Bob's is closer anyway, and he disappears into his old place and old habits for the night. The macadamia squeak of the bar door wraps a dark arm around him and he gets the kind of shitfaced that once took all day to accomplish. Like then, the murky current of what bothers him is like an underground river pooling into a lake of poison. He doesn't say five words the whole time he's there but Bob knows who's got him all fucked up like this. He just keeps pouring, and half-carries him out back after close.

The lightbulb's burnt out in his old bedroom and he's too drunk to stand on a chair to do anything about it, so he lays in bed and can't believe he'd ever considered bringing her here. As if Bob wouldn't notice, as if fucking her out here would render them invisible...

It couldn't be clearer. He shouldn't be fucking her anywhere.

*

He wakes up late and drags himself home, hoping against hope that Marty isn't there.

“Hey,” Marty says, with concern that implies he looks as bad as he feels. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Had a rough night at Bob's.”

“It took till nine 'fore I realized you weren't here so I made way too much coffee. Looks like you could use it.”

It's tempting to fall at his feet and invite him to beat his ass to a pulp, but he's only half of this and a secret of this size warrants joint custody as serious as a child. It will end when she finds someone better, which given the events of last night shouldn't be hard at all. It's equal parts pain and relief to think she's probably already let him go.

He heads for the coffee and half jumps at a dark mass in his peripheral vision. "The fuck is that?"

There's a new addition to the kitchen and it's a weird one, a big leafy thing like a houseplant but it's not in a pot. “Oh," Marty says. "Audrey brought that by on her way back to New Orleans this morning.”

“What the hell is it?”

“Kale. Supposed to be good for your heart and I got no idea what to do with it. She says hi, by the way.”

Rust nods and can't quite remember hating himself more. He tries to put on a light conversational act like he does at Maggie's. “Hey, is it hard eating different? 'Cause I was thinkin' about doin' it, too.”

“Well, I complain a lot, but it hasn't been all that bad. Jesus Rust, what's the matter?”

“Hate getting old, I guess.”

“Don't get sad, man, there's stuff you can do. Quit smoking if you're so worried.”

“I can't. I love it too much.”

Marty snorts. “Cut back, then. And see if you can talk my kid into doing it, too.”

*

Rust finds out midweek that what happened has a name. _Stable angina,_ and he gets a prescription for nitroglycerin pills to put under his tongue when it happens, or ten minutes before he thinks it might. Of course he doesn't appreciate the irony of smokeless gunpowder one bit.

He's never called Audrey before and leaves the house to do it.

"Greetings. This is not Audrey."

It has to be the roommate with the gluten problem and Rust almost hangs up because he has no experience talking to twenty-six-year-olds. Audrey is, but he forgets.

"Well, whoever you are, is she there?”

“She's outside watering plants but I'll go get her. Is this her dad?”

His shoulders sink. "No."

There's a bit of a shuffle and her voice coming closer. "Hello?"

He tells her about the appointment - about getting hooked up to the machine for a stress test and the pills. "So it's not good, but it could be a lot worse. I've gotta watch what I eat and cut way back on smoking and...I don't know what to do about us. Obviously I'm scared to go near you ever again, but it's a compliment if you think about it. Not everyone can kill a man just by fuckin' 'em."

She gives a soft laugh. "But you're not dead."

"Huh. Not yet," he says, and braces for the hard part. "Listen, we can keep hangin' out like we do but I think you need someone closer to your age who isn't a tired old mess." An irritated sigh whooshes from Audrey's end of the line and Rust's shoulders fall even more; he didn't want to say it in the first place and wants a fight even less.

"Do you want to hear about the last date I had with someone my own age?"

Of course he doesn't. "Not really."

"Too bad. Remember that cafe I worked at last year? I went out with a guy who came in all the time. He took me on a picnic with fancy French food and a bottle of wine. Brought flowers and everything."

It's as if some part of him's caught fire, not quite his heart but something nearby. "Sounds nice."

"Hello, are you even listening? You know I hate cut flowers."

Oh yeah, because they're wasteful and sad. "An' you hate eating outside because of bugs."

"Right. See? You already know all this stuff and..." A hitch in her voice dies in a swallow. "I can't give you up. You're, like, built into my life now and I don't care about...you know. _That._ Not if it's gonna kill you."

He forces a short laugh, not because it's the least bit funny but because he knows she wants to hear it. "Much appreciated."

"Anyway, you can't start avoiding me when I come home."

That had one thousand percent been his plan. "I can't?"

"Hell no. If we start acting weird my parents will definitely think we've got something terrible going on."

Rust catches himself nodding. That's a really good point.

*

He cuts back on smoking. Won't ever quite quit but he makes a substantial dent and gradually gets in shape enough to do the first one armed push-ups he's done since his thirties. He only does a couple a day, but still. It feels good to be strong again.

Audrey's making progress, too. She lobs the terrifying accusation of _muse_ at Rust, who doesn't mind so long as she doesn't tell the whole world about it. Since spring she's been painting dive bars and tall, dirty cowboys and they're so good she's selling almost every one of them.

*

Word gets around and she lands a fall gallery showing in Atlanta and the entire family flies over for opening night, even Macie. Rust gets dragged along and shares a hotel room with Marty, who's sappy and thrilled with Audrey's success but keeps saying "Hot-lanta" like he's getting paid to.

Rust follows him around submissively and keeps an appropriate distance from Audrey. Her paintings are indescribable, and he's proud enough to burst until Maggie corners him and claims she "knows." His pulse crashes in his ears as he cooly denies any untoward doings with her daughter, and he'd like to figure out how she arrived at that conclusion but it's honestly not the biggest thing happening for him that night. _  
_

After the confrontation his hands don't even shake when he takes a cigarette outside. It'd take a lot to bring him down because they've got another room in the hotel that night, nowhere near any of the others.

He waits until the appointed time and takes the stairs.

Audrey greets him at the door in a white hotel robe. “I got us champagne,” she says, and quietly clicks the door shut behind him. The room's like the one he shares with Marty except for the one big bed, but there's a difference so huge he can't process it right away.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He scans the walls, unsure at first, then realizes it's the freedom to touch her in incandescent light, in this much space. It's so simple and powerful. “I can't believe we're here.”

“We're wasting time!” Audrey kicks him with a bare foot, then goes in for a kiss but shoves him with both hands, laughing.

They've never really played before.

“Hey. I don't have to take this kind of abuse,” Rust says, absorbing every push and tease until color rises in her cheeks. When he grabs her, she twists in his grip and screams as he wrestles her down onto the bed. The robe's bulk is like soft armor between them and she thrashes so hard he eases up so they don't burn all their energy on this “Be nice,” he says, softening his touch. “Can you be nice for me?”

“Yeah.” She leans up for kisses and spreads her legs, hidden under the robe but still an invitation. Rust feels up her leg, and she's completely smooth. Everywhere. “You know how I got roped into spa day? I got it all waxed off 'cause I thought it'd be fun,” she says. “I get super sensitive.”

For now it's better to touch than see, and he finds that oval of pearly, slippery wetness. There's a warm familiarity about all of this, as if they're together like this all the time. Audrey closes her eyes and sighs. “Keep doing that.”

The robe comes untied and there's that much more to see, to kiss, and he gets down between her legs and tastes. It's like salted rain and soon she's breathy and squirming against the pressure of his tongue.

She tugs his hair hard just as he's making serious headway. “No more. I wanna get in bed.” She sheds the robe on the floor, pulls the covers back, and starts working on his clothes. Her legs shake when they collide under the covers and a smear of wet hits his hipbone.

"You got a plan if I die in the middle of this?" He can ask it now because they both know he won't.

"Walk away," she says, pushing pillows to the side and settling down on her back. "Like I was never here."

He relishes the thrill in her eyes when he sinks inside her. “Oh God,” she moans. “You feel so fucking good.” It's the wax, it's his weight, it's all of it. Feet hook against his calves for leverage and he finds a slow, circular grind where they hardly move. It's enough for Audrey; her head tips back and her body tightens. “Fuck, I want this every night.”

He's not sure he could give her that but would be willing to try. He closes his eyes and thinks of freedom he wants - like to hold her hand in front of people or stick his hand up that goddamn skirt she had on earlier. To show up places together and have it not be weird. To not have to see everything they do through someone else's eyes, two steps before they do it.

Her breath deepens and she gets quiet, then quieter, and he fucks her slow and deep until she trembles. “Rust. I'm close.”

He slows to a stop, kissing her neck. "Wait."

She couldn't be prettier, all flushed and open, and he takes a moment to really feel what it's like being inside her. Pressure. Warmth. Twinge of muscle when she decides to squeeze. They fall back in together, serious and in synch, a little faster and rougher than before. Her nails are in his back and she's lifting up and crying his name, his real name, and it's not physiologically possible for his balls to turn inside out but damn if it doesn't feel like they try.

The collapse inside her is sweet and soft. He apologizes into her hair. “You might not get much more out of me tonight.”

“That's fine." Her fingertips feel like feathers tracing up and down his back. "It's been a long day. I'm tired.”

They kiss and loll about, tangle legs and arms to test other things they haven't done before, followed by Audrey's detailed examination of Rust's tattoos and scars. She doesn't have tattoos or scars but gets kisses on the little red marks her new shoes left on her feet.

"Stop it. It tickles." She sits up and reaches for the champagne bucket on the nightstand. “It'd be a shame to waste this,” she says, and pours both glasses to the rim. She drinks hers fast while Rust sips and watches her drain it, refill, and start again. Maybe someday they'll have all their weaknesses leveled out to something resembling moderation. Smoking, drinking. Each other.

He plays with the rosewood streaks in her hair. “What's gonna happen with us?” he asks.

“Dunno.” Her breasts do a lovely little bounce when she jerks with a hiccup. “Come clean or get caught, I guess. I can't see us stopping, can you?”

“No. I can't.”

“To take a page from _you..."_ she says, and touches the tip of his nose. "Sometimes I think we should tell them when I turn thirty. Like it's not that far away. Dad's so different now I wonder if he might actually be cool with it.”

“You think?”

“Maybe, but mom never would. Fuck her, though.”

Rust shudders. “No thanks.”

She starts pounding glass number two easy as water; Rust sits up and wraps an arm around her. “Take it easy, hey.”

“But I gotta smell drunk when I get back to the room in case Macie's up or mom's waiting.” She looks at him, mischief and pain tied up together. “What would you say to my dad if he found out?”

“It'd depend on whether he knocks all my teeth down my throat. But I guess I'd tell him I've been trying to fall out of love with you for almost a year and I can't.”

“Aw.”

“Maybe they'll all expect it someday. Who knows. Here, lemme help you out.”

The bottle's empty in minutes, a pale yellow wash of fruit on the back of his tongue, and he can't help touching where she's pink and swollen.

"Mm. I wish we could sleep together. Like sleep-sleep."

He wants it, too. Like air. “Someday. What's our excuse tonight? I said I was going out for a drink and taking a walk to look at all the lights."

"And I said I wanted to go dancing. Um...okay, I accidentally hit too many zeros at the ATM and didn't feel safe carrying all that cash so I asked you to stay out with me. You sat at the bar. We got back around three."

Her excuses are remarkable, and Rust shouldn't admire her skill but he does. "How 'bout you lie to me sometime and see if I can tell," he says, and she rolls out of bed and looks back over her bare shoulder.

"I don't think I could lie to you."

That's probably one right there, and he enjoys a private laugh over it. The headboard embosses his back as he watches her get dressed, and he wonders how the hell she walks in those damn shoes. "How about call me when you wake up and we'll meet out front for a smoke.”

"Okay." She puts a knee on the bed and bends over for one more kiss. “Goodnight. I love you.”

He gets her face in his hands and it's hard to let her go. "I love you, too."

She blows a kiss on the way out. The door clicks shut and Rust slides back down into bed even though he should get back to his room, too. The past year's made him older, made him younger. From the first horrific stumble to tonight, he's not the same.

Her scent's all over the sheets, all over him, and he's more or less doomed. Even in the bathroom there are tissues with the colors of her face on them. Red mouth, dark eyes.

He's utterly fucked.

Even when Audrey's gone, she's everywhere.

*

He dresses and trudges back to the room he shares with Marty. He's quiet as he can be, but that voice shoots out of the darkness and slugs him in the chest. "Holy hell Rust, are you just now gettin' in?"

"Maybe."

"Suppose your one drink turned into five."

"Not really." Rust gets ready for bed and embarks on the prepared excuse. "Audrey accidentally hit too many zeros at the ATM. She didn't feel good carryin' all that money around so she asked if I'd stay out with her."

"And...?"

"She went dancing. I just drank and watched from the side."

"She get back safe?"

"I didn't walk her all the way to her room but I assume so."

"Well thanks, I guess. I sure do love that kid."

The champagne's made Rust dangerously brave. "Me too. She's somethin' else."

"I can tell she's awful tickled you're here," Marty says, his words stretched out by a yawn. "Funny. I think we all kinda like havin' you around."

"Good. I kinda like bein' here."

"Well, 'night. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeaup."

Rust settles in and he's tired, yet wide awake.

In the morning they'll meet for a cigarette on the bench next to the white Higan cherry that smells like almonds, the ugliest habit next to the prettiest tree. _Kinda like us_ he'll say, and Audrey will probably dispense a light kick and tell him to shut up. They'll smoke and pretend they aren't sharing electrons and fake their way through another long day. A year ago he thought a wholesome Snow White-sized kiss from Audrey might tide him over till the end of his days, but lately nothing - not even tonight - is enough.

Goddamn, she gets him wound up.

He takes a deep breath and pushes his mind to drift far away, all the way back to the fishing boats of Alaska. He's always slept well on boats...the mathematical heartbeat of rocking side-to-side used to knock him out in minutes and he tries to think about that instead of her.

He imagines the gulf in that steely blue-gray color he loves and the waves pass like counting sheep. A wave might be a week, a bigger one a month, all of it adding up to years, in front of him and behind like a rolled-out map of where he's been and where he could go.

A calmness sinks into him and presses him down.

Wherever he goes, he suspects she'll be there.

 

 


End file.
